


"History doesn't repeat itself but it does rhyme."    - S. Clemens (who swore the Devil told him that)

by Rainey657



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainey657/pseuds/Rainey657
Summary: Lucifer encounters an AU adult Trixie with a horror story about what might be everyone's future. Potentially offensive political comments for MAGA supporters.





	"History doesn't repeat itself but it does rhyme."    - S. Clemens (who swore the Devil told him that)

Content warning: Highly political. Impolitely critical of current administration (yes, The Donald is going to Hell). Primary and secondary character deaths in AU.

by Rainey657

Heartfelt gratitude to the creators of our favorite show, whose characters have a permanent place in our hearts. I'm just borrowing them to get in a swipe at our most egregious electoral mistake ever. Lucifer doesn't like him, either.

  
******************************************

  
Later, Lucifer realized he should have known it was going to be “that” kind of day, – virtually Biblical, if one was prone to dramatic overstatement -- but the possibility never occurred to the Devil during a required early morning visit from his penthouse down to Lux proper.

He'd intended to speak to the cleaning crew about extending their services to the storage area where a keg of microbrew had exploded sometime during the previous evening. That should have been Mazikeen's job, but bitter experience had taught Lucifer it was better to keep his personal demon separated from the cleaning crew. The owner's adolescent son had taken an interest in what the boy (incorrectly) assumed was a human with the temerity to believe she was a skilled fighter. He, on the other hand, was an experienced mixed martial arts warrior (his video game scores proved it!) and he challenged Ms. Smith to a fight.

  
Ms. Smith laughed nastily and walked away.

  
The mixed martial arts expert attempted a flying kick at her tempting backside and found himself on the floor with her knee on his throat. But instead of beating him into a bloody pulp she continued to laugh and (here, Lucifer was forced to put his drink down or risk spitting it across the table) began tickling him!

  
The young man's father saw what was going on, and took umbrage at the disrespect. No woman was going to shame his son!

  
Both Lucifer and Patrick were required to intervene in what promised to become an all-out brawl between a demon who couldn't stop laughing and an enraged sanitation brigade with their macho up. Patrick held Mazikeen back with a glass of 151 rum and the smouldering eye-to-eye gaze she found irresistible; Lucifer poured drinks for the crew and waved bonuses under their noses. Eventually, an agreement was reached that involved Mazikeen absenting herself from the club prior to the crew's arrival. Let Detective Decker and the Spawn deal with her indignation; Lucifer wanted his club clean and blood-free.

  
He'd just stepped out of the elevator when the music began.

  
Now, the Devil was a brilliant pianist who fancied he could have been concert quality if he'd devoted more time to burnishing his already considerable skills. But what he was hearing now was far beyond his abilities, no matter how many hours he spent at the keyboard. This was music, this was art, this was the kind of genius-level creativity that comes along once in a generation. This was what his Steinway concert grand was meant for.

  
And this was not a recording.

  
But the individual sitting at the keyboard was not the concert pianist one would expect to see. The man was elderly, round-shouldered and wearing work pants and a frayed sweater with holes at the elbows. His hair needed trimming, his face carried two days of gray stubble and mismatched shoes were tied with string instead of laces. But his hands flew over the keys with the kind of grace poets once attributed to “Dad,” although Lucifer knew from personal experience it was more the end result of countless hours spent on deadly boring drills and scales than divine intervention. And one should also credit heartbreak. And loss. And the performer's bone-deep understanding of what the composer was trying to tell the world.

  
There is certain music that cannot be played well by the young, music that must come from years of sorrow and joy, that speaks of pain and suffering and continuing on after all is lost, music that youthful optimism and good health cannot yet understand. Those mature emotions were flowing from the Steinway's keyboard, and the Devil leaned against the bar to listen, all thoughts of business flown from his head.

  
The music stopped as the pianist glanced over and smiled tentatively. “Lovely instrument. You must treat her with great respect.”  
The Devil nodded and held out his hand. “Lucifer Morningstar. I own the club and the piano. Your playing is far beyond anything I could possible manage. Were you looking for someone here?”

  
The man smiled. “In town to visit ... friends.” He nodded toward the cleaning crew, obliviously scrubbing the kitchen appliances. “The Steinway called to me, and I could not ignore her.”

  
Lucifer's urge to be a good host took over. “Let me get you a drink. It's the least I can do in repayment for the beauty you've created here!”

  
The man nodded and made room on the bench when Lucifer returned, a bottle of Lux's best scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other.  
“Have I heard you play before?” he asked, pouring them both a drink.

  
“Not for years; circumstances were such that I retired and chose to enjoy life outside of touring and endless performances. I'd been in so many cities, yet saw nothing beyond concert halls, hotels and... train stations.” He shuddered. “Berlin amazed me! And Paris; lovelier than I remembered. Of course, I'd seen it last just after the war...”

  
The two traded memories, shared their love of music (Disco: “An abomination!!” Rap: “You do remember what was said about Gershwin?”) and, as all conversations in Southern California must, eventually moved on to the visitor's opinions on the area.

  
“I must confess, my arrival had an ulterior motive.”

  
Lucifer lifted an eyebrow. Here it comes...

  
“I was hoping to influence a distant relative to go into politics.”

  
The Devil's smile was sour. “You must loathe that person.”

  
The older man laughed. “Politicians being the lowest of the low; yes, so I've heard. And she would be a gazelle among the hyenas. But the woman has... abilities and beliefs that I think would be the saving of this country, if she would be willing to attempt a run at the Senate.”

  
Lucifer sighed. “Do you honestly believe a nation that elected Donald Trump deserves rescuing from their own terrible choices?”

  
The man's eyes grew opaque, as if he was seeing a different time and place. “Did the Germans who elected Adolph deserve what was done to them? We both know how good people make bad decisions before they understand the consequences. Did everyone who died in those ugly years deserve their deaths? So much waste... Do those you love today deserve what was lost to killings that happened long before they were born?”

  
His faded gray eyes focused intently on Lucifer's brown ones. “In less than 10 years millions died. Do you know what a dead body smells like? Ten of them? A hundred, rotting beside the road?

  
“One of those bodies belonged to a small child who didn't grow up to discover a cure for bone cancer. Another was a woman whose contributions to science would have helped create the engines that should have already sent our species to Mars.

  
“There were many and more like that; lives that would have had large and small impacts on the world. Every death is a terrible loss to the living, Lucifer, and all suffering will eventually claim its due from each of us. We CANNOT sit back and do NOTHING! We're late, horribly late.”

  
“Late?” Lucifer ask, softly. “For... what?”

  
“For what's coming.” The pianist roughly dry-washed his face. “You know history; you know there have been no world wars since 1945, correct?”

  
The Devil nodded, wondering where this was going.

  
“Wars are extremely profitable and spur tremendous scientific progress; there's no arguing that. So what do you think has stopped our species from creating a 'war to end all wars' like the first two were supposed to be?”

  
Lucifer thought for a moment. “The atom bomb, I'd say.”

  
“And you'd be correct. Leaders around the world are holding back on their own 'final solutions' because nobody wants to be _that_ man, the one who fires first, the _putz_ who sends us all back to the Stone Age. If we're fortunate.”

  
Lucifer finished his drink and refilled their glasses. “I suppose the leaders understand what's at stake?”

  
The elderly pianist shook his head. “Son...”

  
Lucifer frowned. How he loathed that word! Far too reminiscent of Dad for comfort.

  
His companion patted him on the arm. “Listen to me! Good men do good things. Evil men do evil things. Some say that for good men to do evil things requires religion.

  
“But I say it requires being far too sure of yourself. That what you want is what's best for everyone else.”

  
Lucifer caressed the keyboard, playing a solemn minor chord one-handed. “Or just not caring what anyone else wants. Some are always ready to sacrifice everything for what they believe is best for themselves, or, yes, for what they believe in because the alternative is unacceptable to them. In America, they used to call it 'better dead than Red'. You humans are a proud species; I once thought it came from being the only ones to walk on your hind legs.”

  
The old man sighed. “People who achieve great power over others are often too proud to admit their way isn't the only way. All it takes is one hothead who doesn't completely understand what's at stake, one 'fucking moron' with a temper he refuses to control...”

  
Lucifer's smile turned sour. “Talking about Trump, are you?”

  
“Not just Trump, not just the leaders we hear about on the evening news, but the men they listen to. It's easy to give bad advice when it's not YOU who makes the final decisions. The blame for your suggestions goes elsewhere; someone else is responsible for the horror your ideas started.

  
“Not you, oh, no no no. Never you. You didn't give the orders. You or your TV station or your newspaper or... what do they call it? A spiderweb?”

  
“Website, I believe.”

  
“Thank you; yes, you use whatever media you like to suggested an idea and let some other fool sign his name on the form that puts it into action.

  
“All it takes is one idiot who believes he can make an example out of some other equally _meshugana_ leader who dares to spit an insult at him, and we will push that nuclear button so goddamn fast we won't know what hit us!”

  
Lucifer's vision blurred, and he saw the ghosts of the children penned behind barbed wire like cattle, the filthy little faces, hollow-eyed, starving, and absolutely silent as men in gleaming jackboots and black uniforms strutted past. Men who had once been accountants and lawyers and doctors, good men who had families and positions of responsibility in their communities, men with education, cultured men, not barbarians. The Devil had dropped by for a moment to take names and memorize faces, knowing that sooner than they expected these _good_ men would be appearing before the Lord of Hell, pissing themselves and crying about how they didn't know, how sorry they were, please forgive them...

  
Oh, how he'd smiled at those once-smug Aryans, proud in their silver deaths'-head insignia and perky little hats. How, days or weeks or months later, they screamed in terror at the sight of his face, but the children... the children... and one little boy, who stared blankly into the Devil's eyes, too exhausted even to cry. Probably didn't live out the day, because the guards in the towers were shooting prisoners for sport before the Allies or the Russians came through the gates...

  
_...Arbeit Macht Frei..._

  
...so the _Ubermensch_ drew their chrome Lugers and sang the Horst Wessel as they shot the children where they stood, and Lucifer Morningstar clenched his fists until the bones in his hands groaned as he planned the eternal suffering of the _Totenkopfverbande_ and knew for certain that Dear Dad had abandoned the world He'd created.

  
_I rode a tank_  
 _In the generals' rank..._

  
No, he hadn't ridden a tank in the generals' rank. Mick got that one wrong, but Lucifer was willing to grant him artistic license. The Devil had been dressed as an Russian officer, wearing filthy rags held together with medals, driving a stolen Jeep. They were part of the First Army of the Ukrainian Front under the command of Marshal Koniev ( _oh, that Russian vodka_ – nobody knew the Marshal drank until they saw him sober) as the Soviet Union marched past, got curious and entered Auschwitz by accident. The horror and rage he saw on the faces of those battle-hardened soldiers who were themselves the sons and grandsons of pogrom-loving Cossacks gave him a flicker of hope for humanity. But he'd had that same hope when Berlin celebrated itself as the most urbane, sophisticated, cultured city on earth, and look what Weimar Germany had turned into...

  
_As the blitzkrieg raged_  
 _and the bodies stank..._

  
And he'd been there for the worst of it, had helped elderly, oh-so-proper British matrons into the Underground shelters, protected babies from falling masonry with his body. Sir Winston counted him as a friend, something Lucifer was inordinantely proud of. Old bastard did love a filthy story, and he was one of the very few people who could match Lucifer drink for drink and still stay on his feet. Heart of a lion, and how the Devil had laughed as the stubborn sot refused to believe he was indeed _Arturus Rex_ , returned from the dead as promised to save Britain in Her hour of need. An unrepentant atheist was Winnie, and Lucifer would have dearly loved to see his bulldog face when Dad met him at the Pearlies with a drink and a hug.

  
The artist sitting at his Steinway might have enjoyed Sir Winston's company, in another time and place.

  
“Know why nothing ever happened to the US after Truman ordered Little Boy and Fat Man dropped on Japan?” The old man answered his own question without drawing a breath. “Because nobody else had what we had!

  
“But they do now, and children who have powerful toys want to take them out and play with them. Let just one child do something forbidden, something wrong, and the rest will try it, too.”

  
The old man was trembling. Lucifer put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I really don't think it's all that...”

  
“YES!” the pianist shouted. His fist came down on the keys, the discordant noise shocking in its rage. “It most assuredly IS 'all that bad', sir!"

  
What Lucifer had intended to say was “I really don't think it's all that helpful for you to become so disturbed over human nature that you cannot change.” But before he could get that far, as his guest continued:

  
“Trump has taken the worst of the worst, that monster Bolton, to his side. I saw his kind before, leading ordinary people to commit atrocities, encouraging the beasts to monstrous, unforgivable acts. It's going to happen again and I can't get anyone to see it!”

  
The little boy behind the barbed wire faded from sight, a ghost 73 years gone up in smoke.

  
“The children have their toys, and it's been generations since anyone has seen the consequences of playing with them. Do you honestly believe that situation is going to last much longer? When your leader is bragging about the size of the red button on his desk? When another powerful leader is sending hit men into free countries to kill anyone he doesn't like?”

  
The men in the shadows look for fools like Trump, Lucifer thought. And the ones who pay for their leaders' hubris come staggering out of the ruins with flesh hanging off them in sheets, burned beyond recognition, the true walking dead, poisoned and dying as the bodies of their friends and families choke the rivers. People were gathering for breakfast, drinking tea in cafes, enjoying the morning, not knowing what that terrible bright flash meant until their world exploded and burned around them and a cloud in the shape of a hideous mushroom rose over their city.

  
“Lucifer, listen to what I'm saying, because I. Know. What. I'm. Talking. About. This will not end well. Not for you and not for those you love. Not for anyone, anywhere. America MUST get someone into office who can help stop this insanity!”

  
He was old, and he was in tears, and the Devil began to fear for his health.

  
“My daughter planned to run for your state Senate; she has the skill to change the minds of fools who mean well and the stones to stand up to those who don't. But she needs help, and a lot of it, to get where she can do some good. She needs money – how did it come to this, that you must buy your way into your own government?” His laugh was a death rattle. “She needs good advisors, people who can put together a campaign that has a chance in hell of winning.

  
“Look at what they did to that other lady, that Hillary. My girl will be coming up against them, too, against an enemy nobody can see and no one suspects. I'm sending her off to war, and I can't find anyone to serve beside her!”

  
He was sobbing and Lucifer put an arm around his shoulders. “If it would help, I can make a few calls. I'm owed favors, and I'm sure there are capable individuals who would be happy to talk to her...”

  
The old man shook his head. “She's stopped planning to run. She's seen what's involved, who is rewarded and who is called a monster and disgraced. How they howled 'lock her up.' She doesn't want any part of it anymore.

  
“And I can't blame her.”

  
The Devil poured the remainder of the bottle into his guest's glass and rose to get a second. “Among the worst of Hell's eternal 'guests' are politicians who misled the people who trusted them. Believe me, I know this.”

  
His voice lost the mocking, slightly cynical tone that had become his normal pattern of speech. “Sir, I've seen republics and democracies fail because their leaders were greedy and self-serving. I've watched good people sacrifice themselves and still their worlds fell apart because somehow the worst among you always manage to claw their way to the top. I'm afraid I can't share your faith in the abilities of one individual to make a differ...”

  
He turned around, bottle in hand, but his guest had stepped away from the Steinway. “Sir? Are you up for one more round? I may have some ideas for your granddaughter that could be of assistance to her campaign... sir?”

  
_Odd, that. Didn't hear him leave._

  
The room was empty, as were the restrooms and kitchen. The Devil suddenly realized how silent the club had become, the cleaning crew having left earlier without his mentioning the spill in storage. Worried about the elderly pianist, Lucifer searched the premises and walked around the outside of the building without finding a trace of his visitor. All that remained to indicate they'd spoken were two empty glasses and the open piano. A ghost of the last chord played hung in the air.

  
Lucifer gently closed the keyboard cover, centered himself firmly in 21st century Los Angeles, and put the entire event down as just one of those mystifying encounters for which there would never be a satisfactory explanation. He hoped the old man found his way home.

 

*******************************************************

  
She might have been pretty, once. She was still young, but the proverbial “flower of youth” had wilted under the onslaught of hard times and the struggle to survive. Her hair was a natural brown beneath layers of grease and sweat, her unlined skin drawn and gray with dehydration. Her lips might have been full, were they not scarred and pulled into a perpetual sneer; her eyes were blessedly invisible behind mirrored sunglasses that had been bent and held together with fraying electrical tape. A smile would have revealed missing and broken teeth, stained brown and already loose from neglect.

  
Her clothes were worn and smelled of nights spent sleeping on the ground, warmed by campfires and close proximity to other wretched survivors. She looked like a bag lady, a bum, but moved with the deadly purpose of a big cat. Watchful.

  
No security guard would have allowed her into the building, but it was too early in the evening for the bouncers to man their velvet ropes at the entrance to LA's most exclusive 'party central'. In any event, the woman ignored what would in a few hours become a pass/fail test for the city's glitterati and moved through afternoon shadows to the service door off the back alley. Her fingers brushed the coded security panel, pausing for a few seconds and then keying in the six-number combination that permitted her to push past the curious kitchen staff setting up the evening's appetizers.

  
The assault rifle hanging from a sling over one shoulder and the hell-forged _karambit_ on her belt guaranteed the absence of questions, and both chefs were willing to let their boss handle whatever trouble might have just hit Lux like a guided missile. The club's security cameras had reported her presence to the manager's office, and all employees were confident of Mazikeen Smith's ability to cope with any situation. Nevertheless, the lead chef turned what appeared to be an innocent drawer handle, causing an intruder alert to vibrate on the demon's belt.

  
The belt, however, was lying on the manager's desk instead of wrapped around her waist. Patrick, the club's usual supervisor, was taking a week's much-needed vacation somewhere in the Angeles National Forest, along with his girlfriend, her dog and a tent, a choice that bewildered both the Devil and the demon. It had cost Lucifer Morningstar a shockingly high percentage of Lux's revenue for the week to seduce Mazikeen into take over operational duties in Patrick's absence, and the fact that wearing the annoying buzzer was part of the deal had conveniently slipped her mind.

  
At the moment, she was staring at computer printouts and busy swearing at profit and loss statements. Estimating the week's revenue per square foot took all her attention, and she was oblivious to the wraith that slipped across the lounge and into the penthouse elevator. Another multi-digit code sent it smoothly to the top story and Lucifer's haven, where a soft chime announced her arrival.

  
The woman with the gun and the _karambit_ headed for the bar and studied the wide variety of top-shelf liquor on display. Selecting a bottle of The John Walker (unavailable in the club at any price), she poured herself one finger – a luxury only a select few were permitted – and tossed it back in two gulps. As her unwitting host walked in from the bedroom he was taken aback by the sight of the scarred, filthy face wrinkled in a... familiar expression? Grubby fingerprints on the Baccarat crystal decanter made him wince in revulsion. Not his typical visitor, then, although certainly one with expensive taste.

  
Her face told him this had to be a Decker relative, although why she was here in all her shabby glory and not being welcomed into the loving arms of her family was certainly a topic he planned to bring up later. Not a sister; his detective was an only child. Perhaps a cousin?

  
Yet, the woman was staring at him as if they'd met before. Lucifer had an excellent memory for faces, and he knew this one. Knew it well, but why was this face so... wrong? Pouring on a little charm couldn't hurt, and might give him time to identify her.

  
“My dear, lovely women are always welcome,” the Devil purred. “Would a dinner invitation be amiss? I believe there was a shipment of delightful salmon delivered earlier, and you really must try...”

  
“Lucifer.” She spoke his name as if it hurt. “It's me.”

  
Three words; why did the sound of her voice tear at his heart? He peered at her face, trying to imagine it sans grime and fatigue. Had he done something unforgivable to this individual? He didn't think so, but there was always the chance he'd misread a cue. _Years_ since he'd come to earth, and human emotions still remained confusing, especially those exhibited by females of the species.

  
The woman tossed back the remainder of the drink and stared at him. “Look at me.” She wrinkled her nose and grinned, and the world tilted beneath his feet.

  
“Bea... Beatrice? How...? No. No, this is impossible! Beatrice is eleven years old and just now being released from a day spent suffering through the fifth grade. I could not have devised a more appalling torture, but it seems necessary for the general education of spawn, and I assure you, even if she spent the time rolling about in the dirt you are still too tall to be...” He forced himself to stop babbling.

  
_...the devil does_ not _babble!!_

  
Tears spilled over the layers of grime on the intruder's face, and Lucifer's nonexistent heart threatened to break into a thousand pieces. Undoubtedly a relative; perhaps the detective's half-sister he hadn't been told about?

  
“You do appear to be related, but you can't possibly be my …

  
_...my? where did that come from? is Beatrice now to be thought of as mine?_

  
“...ah, my partner's daughter. Chloe Decker is far too young to have a... you are too...”

  
The pungent individual turned away and splashed water on her face at the bar sink, simultaneously gulping as fast as possible from the faucet and coughing in the process. A segment of Lucifer's more rational mind made a mental note to request his cleaning crew give the entire area a meticulous scrubbing, and began phrasing a tactful invitation to make free with his bathroom...

  
_...especially with the shower and soap..._

  
...when she turned full-on toward him.

  
The now-clean face staring back without question belonged to 'his' Beatrice, but an aged and suffering Beatrice. Skin contains a record of every abuse, every illness, every bitter disappointment. If this was the child he'd come to care deeply for, now standing across from him dripping water and mud on his floor, life had most assuredly not been kind to her.

  
“Beatrice!” he breathed the word softly. “Oh, my dear, what has been done to you?”

  
She moaned, slumped against the bar, then stumbled into his arms. No longer the tyke wrapping herself monkey-like around his legs; the Devil's body and hands told him this was a woman grown – gaunt, but not in the accepted Malibu-and-a-Ferrari way. This Beatrice was all sinew and muscle with no softening body fat, more reminiscent of famine survivors, early subsistence farmers and the hunter-gatherers who spread across the face of the earth during the past 80,000 years than a pampered 21st century American.

  
All the devil could do was hold her protectively in the circle of his arms and begin to rock her in that ancient, soothing rhythm all humans understand. “You are safe now,” he whispered, ignoring the stench of her hair and skin. “You are home.”

  
The sobs gradually subsided, and Beatrice Decker-Espinosa...

  
_...it is truly her – age be damned..._

  
...coughed and pulled away. “Apologies, Lucifer. You don't want to get near me; I've got body lice and can't remember the last time I had a bath.” She gave a ghost of Trixie's familiar grin. “You'll have to burn that Zegna!”

  
Lucifer studied her battered face. “Least of my concerns, dear.” He led her to a couch, glancing curiously at the rifle. “Let me order up some food; any preferences?”

  
She took his hand, holding it to her cheek. “Don't have time. No idea how long I can be here... wait, cancel that and get me a sandwich. Something with meat. Make it to go.”

  
Pushing the hair off her face, his detective's daughter pointed at the now-empty glass and nodded as her host added another finger of the luxury liquid. “Lucifer, do you remember something we did together recently? Anything? I'm not sure what year it is or where we are in this timeline.

  
“There are things I need to tell you.”

 

***********************************************

  
Lucifer Morningstar rarely watched the news. Any time he wanted to know what was happening in the US he knew who to call, knew who was closest to the action and would give him inside information that even top _New York Times_ and _Washington Post_ reporters didn't have.

Another number put him in contact with a source who usually knew more about world affairs than reporters at the BBC. Lucifer knew more about what had gone on when Stormy Daniels met Donald Trump than he really cared to; frankly, it was an image he wished he could get out of his head, and thought Miss Daniels should have held out for a lot more money, considering. (He hoped she'd burned that magazine.)

  
So he wasn't sure what motivated him to turn on the network news later that afternoon, unless it was a way to distract himself from the information Beatrice had provided. He absolutely believed her. Beatrice had no reason to lie, and her appearance validated her words.

There are thin places in the multiverse that allow one reality to open briefly into another. Some time in the future, in one of many possible futures, buttons would be pushed and bombs would fall. In this particular future, the Detective was at the precinct that day, fighting her way through a week's worth of piled-up paperwork... then, suddenly, she wasn't. Wasn't _anywhere_.

  
”It was that quick,” Beatrice told him. No warning, no sirens. Just a too-bright flash, a rush of hot, hot air and the little girl was thrown through the living room wall. Pushed up against a tree, trapped beneath what looked like furniture and part of a roof, Beatrice lay stunned beneath something... _heavy and the world roared and shrieked around her the world screamed the world ended..._

  
She awoke hours later. She knew that because it was dark... _am I blind? can't see... then a light, a flashlight, someone shouting, someone screaming, gunfire, mommy... MOMMY!!!_

  
Daylight again. She's thirsty. So thirsty, and the air is full of smoke. _Is something burning? Somewhere, out, get out... Struggling, squirming against the ...heavy, moves shifts crushing her swearing cursing purple smokey curses..._ and the heavy is gone and she opens her eyes to a familiar face looking down at her... Maze... Maze? Maze!! and Maze is checking her for injuries, talking constantly, silly stuff, and then Beatrice Decker-Espinosa, who has been so very brave since the too-bright flash… _did the TV blow up? Are they angry at me?_ looks at her mother's demonic roommate who is also her very best friend in the whole world, a superhero who chases the bad guys! and she is suddenly very, very afraid.

  
Because Maze is crying.

  
************************

  
They walked for hours. Maze carried her part of the way, but Beatrice was a big girl and didn't need to be carried, but her feet were sore and she was so tired. Hungry, too. They stopped at a store that was closed; Maze said to wait but she didn't want to be...

  
_...alone it was strange and dark no lights no people no cars moving..._

  
...Maze said ‘wait’ so she waited and there was noise from inside the building, yelling, and Maze was back with power bars and chocolate and that evil smile she had when she was going bounty hunting. They kept walking.

  
“We were heading for Lux,” Beatrice smiled. “All of us headed there. It was you. You were powerful; you would protect us. We didn't know why, really... well, _I_ knew, but nobody listens to a kid. And anyway, it was our secret that you weren't who everyone else thought you were. Even though you told them.”

  
Most of the people Lucifer cared about headed for Lux after the bombs hit. Maze and Trixie. Linda and Amenadiel, who arrived together. Patrick. Ella, who had been working miles away and bicycled back, fretting about the bike being reported stolen. Charlotte, desperate to find her children and turning to the only person she knew who could help.

  
“We weren't sane,” Beatrice whispered. “Linda was worried about parking, even though nobody's car was running. Patrick insisted on wiping down glasses; he was sure the club would open and you wouldn't appreciate drinks served in glasses with...” she stopped. Started, stopped again. Lucifer put an arm around her shoulders.

  
“We couldn't think about what had happened. Nobody believed it. We just couldn't... wake up from this awful dream.”

  
They waited in the club, Patrick pouring them alcohol, Linda insisting on leaving cash on the bar and Ella hunting through the kitchen for anything the group could eat. Amenadiel, trying to contact their Father. Maze screamed at him, then hit him when he wouldn't stop praying.

“She might have killed him, she had that _karambit_.” Trixie glanced briefly at the familiar demon-forged blade now on her belt.

  
“But when she saw my face, remembered what I'd lost... Maze got control of her temper before doing any real damage.”

  
“Had to be a first for Mazie,” Lucifer said, softly. “She loves you, you know.”

  
“Loved you, too. So, when she realized you still hadn't come back, she knew right where to look.”

  
With Amenadiel as her wingman, the two non-humans set off to find the third of Heaven and Hell's representatives on Earth. No human could have gotten close to the burning desolation that had once been police headquarters and survived, but this was Lucifer. Unbreakable, immortal Lucifer. When the angel and demon returned hours later, they were half-carrying the King of Hell between them, blank-eyed and stumbling.

  
“You didn't speak and that scared us more than anything,” Beatrice said. Their Lucifer, the sardonic motormouth, silent and stunned. “We spent the night huddled together, wrapped in blankets Maze brought down from the penthouse. Nobody wanted to leave the club; the elevator was out and we were too tired to climb the stairs. And...” Her voice broke.

  
Lucifer stroked her head. “Dan... _Dad_. My dad showed up the next day. I don't know how he made it. Lucifer, he was burned! It didn't look like the burns you get from fire. He sounded fine, talking, started getting us organized to find food and water, and then Linda saw his shirt was in rags and tried to take it off and it wasn't a shirt.. _.it was his skin!”_

  
Lucifer gently shushed her. He knew all too well the look of radiation burns, knew the abysmal survival rate and the terrible suffering that came before the grace of death.

  
“He'd seen the... he'd seen where Mom had been. He knew. He sat next to you, didn't say much, just sat there. I was holding his hand, the one that wasn't too badly burned, Then he told me to be a good girl, that you and Maze were going to be my parents while Mom and him were away.”

  
“Away.” Lucifer managed one word before his throat closed up.

  
She remembered how Dan had turned to Lucifer, said 'Do it for her,' got up and left Lux.

  
“We never saw him again.”

  
The sad little group of survivors stayed together through the coming days. Amenadiel was the first to bring in children. They were wandering the streets, desperate for water, food, safety... their parents. A familiar face.

  
Kindness.

  
The tall angel was drawn to them and they to him. Eventually, the others joined in the hunt, and 20 small humans slept, ate and waited for rescue at what had once been the trendiest club in the Los Angeles area. And all the while, Lucifer remained silent.

  
“When you did start talking you weren't funny anymore,” Beatrice told him. “You stopped being you, the way you were before Mommy...”

  
Lucifer shook his head quickly. That was a topic he couldn't tolerate at the moment. “Then what happened?”

  
For whatever reason, the Devil decided to rejoin the rest of what was left of humanity. He disappeared one day without explanation, returning hours later with food and what appeared to be the entire stock of a hardware store. “You built us a hand pump so we could access water. There was enough now that we could wash up.”

  
A short-wave radio was soon to follow, taking shape under Lucifer's skilled hands. A few of the children were fascinated and he gradually began explaining the 'magic' of electricity, telling them stories about Edison ( _an asshole_ ), Marconi ( _nice enough man, but boring_ ) and Tesla ( _a bloody genius! So smart he scared me!_ ). They loved it, and loved his wings. He was magic to them, and after what they'd endured magic made as much sense as anything else.

Gradually, the Devil became a teacher of the young. They fell asleep to his stories of other, better times and places, listened to him sing the ancient chants that soothed children hundreds and thousands of years ago. They thrilled to his tales of battles and bravery where the good guys won and evil received its comeuppance. The Devil was better than television!

  
Lucifer shook his head at that. The Devil, a grade school teacher? The world had truly ended!

  
“We adored you,” Beatrice laughed. “You didn't put up with any nonsense, and we respected that. You never treated us like children. I think we knew our childhoods ended that day, and surviving meant growing up as fast as possible.”

  
Maze showed them how to defend themselves, how to forge blades and wreak death and destruction on those deserving of pain. Amenadiel spoke softly to them of the Silver City, of kindness and compassion and forgiveness. And if his lessons were a bit less popular than those of Lucifer and Maze, the dark angel's feelings weren't wounded.

  
Dr. Linda managed to remember her medical education and used it to heal damaged bodies and broken spirits. Ella showed them science... and the art of picking locks and stealing cars, even if none of them ran.

  
And the little group struggled and survived, as humans have done for countless years even as the world around them fell to wrack and ruin.

  
Dr. Linda was the first to fall ill and the first of the original group to die. Beatrice, by now as tall as Maze, helped bury her and led the children in singing over her body.

  
_...I am my sister's keeper_  
 _following the tide_  
 _peace with all that's sacred_  
 _has surfaced from inside_  
 _I'm holding onto loving_  
 _I'm holding onto you_  
 _we are all the angels_  
 _sleeping, praying angels_  
 _singing, dying angels..._

Her death left Amenadiel broken. Nothing Maze and Lucifer said could heal the angel. His wings, which had reappeared with the rescued children, drooped, feathers falling. Within weeks he joined his Linda, and there was another grave, another song.

  
_I came upon a child of God_  
 _he was walking along the road_  
 _I asked him 'where are you going?'_  
 _and this he told me…_  
 _We are stardust, we are golden_  
 _and we’ve got to get ourselves_  
 _back to the Garden…_

Lucifer had protested that angels "are immortal and cannot die", which was patently absurd considering the obvious fact that none of them were immortal any longer. No one had seen Lucifer's glorious white wings in years; he insisted he didn't miss them and refused to discuss it further. Mazikeen took Beatrice aside, explaining that the more time Celestials spent on the Earth plane the more human they became. And if they dared to love a human, their deterioration from angelic to mortal was assured. Those were the Rules.

  
Lucifer was desperate to change the subject. “Did no one ever come to rescue you? What about the military, some charitable organization...?”

  
No one came. The bombs had fallen everywhere. Few countries were spared, and those that were couldn't care for their own people. The skies darkened from the smoke, nuclear winter was upon them, and Beatrice had started her monthly bloods before they cleared again. The blue over their heads terrified the littlest children, who couldn't remember what life had been like in the “Before”. Food was scarce. Maze made sure no one starved, but she refused – absolutely _refused_ – to let them see what went into the stew until it was ready to eat. Lucifer had smiled at the sight of his demon cooking over a campfire, but there were no jokes about domestication. Lucifer didn't make jokes anymore.

  
“You did tell us stories, though. We were kids, and we thought they were made-up tales like we'd seen on TV, back when TV worked. Before.”

She paused to stuff the now-delivered sandwich into her mouth, mumbling as she chewed. “Anyway, you spent your evenings on the short-wave radio you'd jury-rigged from supplies Ella and Patrick lifted out of stores in the area...”

  
He listened in on conversations around the world, and because he spoke every possible language Lucifer learned things very few others knew, making him the most well-informed man in Los Angeles. Not a large pool to draw from. But, still...

  
“So. You told us what you'd learned, but made it sound like stories from books so we wouldn't be frightened. Stories are great fun if you know they aren't happening to you, like a place you can visit but won't have to stay if it gets scary. We were kids, and what would have been scary to adults was entertaining to us.”

  
They didn't know what it meant when he told them their not-very-smart President who sent the bombs to blow up people he didn't like also got blown up when those same people, who weren't happy about the bombs falling on them, sent some back at him.

  
It was all over, though, so they didn't have to worry any more. No more bombs would fall, and now they were living like their great great grandparents lived.

“You promised us if they could do it, so could we! It felt good to hear that; if our ancestors survived worse, we knew we'd be okay because Lucifer and Maze were protecting us. But you made sure we understood we couldn't just sit back and rely on you. We had to learn how to protect ourselves, too; how to find food and water. How to be a Tribe. That was important because Mom had been part of a Tribe, and even though they couldn't save her they all pitched in and saved me. That's what the Tribe does for each other.”

  
Lucifer and Maze had the children make little cuts in their hands and share blood together, which meant they were blood relatives and had to stay united no matter what. Lucifer told them that's what had kept humans alive for millions of years, being a Tribe, “... and we thought it was the very best thing possible to be. Considering what had happened to the world, I guess it was.

  
“When I was as tall as Maze and I’d had my monthlies for a long time, Maze suggested maybe I should think about partnering with someone. The kids talked about that, and I knew a boy I wanted to partner with, but Maze said it was a Bad Idea to be with a boy. I might have a baby, which was Not A Good Thing. One girl who was my age, Hawley, already had a baby. It died. Maze made us all look at it and it didn't look much like the baby dolls I'd had as a kid. There was something really wrong with it, which you said was because the radiation had poisoned our bodies. We were okay because we'd already formed inside our moms, and there wasn't any radiation to harm us then.”

  
But the Lucifer in that ravished world feared that any babies born after the bombs fell would be sickly and deformed. The possibility frightened the children. “You talked to me about it, later. You said there shouldn't be any more babies, ever, because the radiation was everywhere and would take thousands of years to dissipate. Eventually, there wouldn't be any more people, and maybe that was a good thing, considering what people did to the pretty world your mum had made for everyone.”

  
Lucifer made Chloe's daughter a tee shirt that said “Elect A Clown, Expect A Circus” and told her it should say “Expect An Apocalypse” but “Circus” was funnier. He told the children there were probably still circuses, because circus people were born entertainers, but there might not be any worth watching around here. “So we decided to put on our own circus!” Beatrice giggled at him. “I didn't know you could juggle! You were good!

  
“Ella did magic tricks… did you know she does magic? And Charlotte made a horse costume for Jason and Izzy, and they danced around and had us laughing so hard... Izzy kicked over a candle but we put it out right away. It was the best time!”

  
Beatrice was growing up; not yet a teenager in the Before but now an adult in the shattered wreckage the world had become. She decided to partner with Daphne, and Lucifer and Maze though that was a fine idea because Daphne was nice and liked her back. “We had a wedding and I got to wear a dress someone had left at Lux back when it was a club and had real lights and recorded music, not just candles and us singing.

  
“You said it didn't look much like a wedding dress, but Maze said it was just fine and you should shut up. It wasn't very warm, but I looked pretty in it and I liked how Daphne looked at me when I was wearing it.”

  
Lucifer played the Steinway every day, even though it had gone out of tune. It was usually sad music, which wasn't popular with most of the children, but Beatrice loyally insisted it was just fantastic! Besides, he was teaching some of the other kids how to play and she did like their songs.

  
“Anyway, when Daphne and I got partnered and I wore the dress and you played a song I hadn't heard since Before. It was 'Heart and Soul' – even I know how to play Heart and Soul! We all sang along and danced, and... I... you were crying while you played it.

  
“It had something to do with Mom, huh?”

_Heart and soul, I fell in love with you_   
_Heart and soul, just like a fool would do..._

 

************************

  
Lucifer had reached his limit. No torture the King of Hell had ever devised could hurt as much as this. His Chloe... dead? Blown into atoms by someone else's Dad-damned push of a button thousands of miles away? Tthe people he knew and cared about had survived, but the one who mattered the most was dust and ashes before she knew what hit her.

And Detective Douche. No, _Dan_. Dan, his skin coming off like an old shirt. His brother and his dear doctor, both dead. He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. “And Charlotte? What happened to her?”

  
Beatrice smiled. “Charlotte and Ella are still there, still alive and caring for us. Patrick comes around whenever he has food. Charlotte never found her sons, which was pretty much everyone's story, but she had you and Amenadiel. You even called her 'Mum' there at the end. She liked that.”

  
_… there at the end?_

  
“What happened to... me? I'm still around, being my attractive self, correct?”

  
Beatrice shook her head. “You got sick”, she whispered.

  
This was too much! “I am the _Devil!!”_ Lucifer was offended. Sick? “The Devil does not get 'sick', my dear!”

  
“You weren't the Devil any more, and Maze was as human as I am. Too much time on Earth, too much love for us mortals. The radiation got Maze and it got you, too, Lucifer.”

  
They knew Maze was sick, so no one was surprised when she failed to come back to Lux after one of her hunting trips. There was an argument about what to sing if they didn’t have a body to bury, which would have suited Maze perfectly – nobody loved a good fight as much as their demon. Lucifer settled it by sitting down at the piano and singing ‘Brothers In Arms’. It was the last thing he ever played.

  
_Now the sun's gone to hell_  
 _and the moon's riding high_  
 _Let me bid you farewell_  
 _Everyone has to die..._

  
Beatrice smiled, and he was taken aback by the love in her eyes. “You were leaving us, and I knew I had to do something to let you know it was okay, that you'd done everything you came here to do.

  
“So I played 'Heart and Soul' for you and Mom.”

_...madly! That little kiss you stole_   
_took all my heart and soul,_   
_ever and forever..._

“You smiled, and I swear on my life I saw your lips form the word 'Chloe'. Then you opened your eyes and they were glowing! There were lights in them like I've never seen and they weren't dark brown any more – your eyes were gold!”

  
She hung her head. “I know you saw my Mom! She was there, waiting for you.

  
“Whatever you did, I think maybe somehow your Dad forgave you and took you home to be with her.”

  
The penthouse was quiet. Lucifer was stunned; this child... no, _woman_... had known another 'him', a man who was more human than Celestial, who taught _children_ how to play his Steinway (he shuddered) and remained in a meaningless existence without the love of his life... and gave himself for someone else. Well, several someones, according to what she'd told him.

  
He reached to hold Beatrice and saw his hand slide through her arm as if it was a hologram. “Going back, Lucifer,” she said, in a voice dimmed to a whisper as the membrane of time and space closed around her. “Stop it from happening here. Don't let it...” and Beatrice Decker-Espinosa faded from view, leaving behind smudges on his floor, an empty glass and his broken heart.

 

**************************

The evening news was nearly over when he heard Lester Holt say something about a concert pianist...

  
“...found dead in his Tel Aviv apartment early this morning, New York time. Jacob Weiss was considered one of the greatest musicians of his era after surviving a childhood spent in the Auschwitz concentration camp. He stopped performing in public following the death of his wife, a brilliant musician in her own right who was killed in a 1993 terrorist attack in Jerusalem.”

  
The picture on the screen was of a same man Lucifer had encountered that morning playing his Steinway, but younger and heartier.

  
“Mr. Weiss had suffered from Alzheimer's disease for several years,” the announcer continued. “His daughter had considered a run at the California Senate but dropped out of the race last week.

  
“In other news...”

  
It took Lucifer Morningstar less than 30 minutes to fill a briefcase with tightly wrapped stacks of Benjamins, sufficient to kick even the most moribund political campaign into high gear. A quick phone call to an acquaintance who owed the Devil yet another favor provided the daughter's address, and it was a short drive from Lux to her house. Lucifer never let himself be deterred by social constraints on strange men making unexpected visits to middle-aged women; after all, he wasn't technically a “man”...and he had the wings to prove it.

  
Only two people will ever know what the Devil said to the former political candidate who answered the door in dirt-smeared gardening garb. But he was relieved to discover that Jacob Weiss' daughter was hardly a gazelle, and Dad help the hyenas who thought she'd be an easy lunch. Lucifer had felt a similar sense of power from Sir Winston, and the woman certainly had old Winnie's gruffness and lack of tolerance for those who failed to get to the point. “In your face” would be an understatement. Hopefully, she didn't share his love of a stiff drink first thing in the morning.

  
Yet there was something about this woman who – although there was no physical resemblance – also reminded him of his personal demon. Perhaps the Senate race might just have gotten more interesting. And Lucifer had a few ideas about what might make a significant impact on the campaign trail...

  
********************************

  
Ten in the evening, and the last thing the Devil wanted was to perform before drunks and charm lovelies out of their unmentionables ( _and damn that Winston! Nobody talks like that today... get out of my head, you old goat!_ ). The sight of the adult Beatrice had burned itself into his brain and he ached to make sure both his detective and her daughter were safe. The fact that he knew, logically, they were fine was insufficient comfort.

  
So it was less than 15 minutes later that a pajama-clad Trixie – aged an appropriate 11 years – saw her favorite human fling open their front door. Her happy cry of “Lucifer!!” alerted her mother to their unexpected visitor, and Chloe Decker (also in pajamas) looked into the living room and was greeted by the astonishing sight of her child-loathing partner clutching the little girl in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He looked up at her over the tousled head and Chloe could swear she saw tears in his eyes.

  
He reached for her, and without knowing quite _why_ she went straight into his arms and felt the man who severely tried her patience on a regularly (daily) basis... no, he couldn't be... crying? Not her Lucifer.

  
“Wha...? Lucifer, what's wrong?” But he only shook his head and burrowed his face against hers, and she felt the wetness against her cheek. Trixie clung to him like a limpet and Chloe drank in the rare moment of _whatever it was_ and pulled him closer. Perhaps the man who ran like a greyhound at the first sign of commitment had taken a small step toward... something.

  
Later, the three of them sprawled on the couch, Trixie snoring softly against Lucifer's chest and Chloe snuggled under his other arm, drifting in a gentle doze. Thunder growled in the distance and the 10 pm news played quietly. The Devil stretched his long legs across the coffee table and reached for the remote, pausing as the announcer moved from sports to politics.

“In an unexpected development, a former Senate candidate who recently dropped out of the race has re-entered it after receiving an anonymous donation to keep her campaign going. Miriam Weiss, liberal Democrat and enthusiastic supporter of the Populist movement will be formally announcing...”

  
A friend once told him that contributing to public affairs is the critical duty of the philosopher. And what is the Devil if not a philosopher?

  
The thunder growled again, and Lucifer Morningstar rolled his eyes to the ceiling. In a soft whisper he hoped wouldn't awaken 'his' women, and using a tone guaranteed to irritate every parent who ever lived, he hissed a response to his heavenly progenitor, who probably wasn’t listening but one never knew...

  
“OKAY, Dad. I _GOT_ you. I'm _ON_ it!”

*****************************

  
Music credits:

_Sister's Keeper_ from the album _What the Mother Pot Sings_ , by Susan Berman (available on iTunes). It tears my heart out every time I hear it.

  
_Woodstock_ by Crosby, Stills, Nash  & Young from the album _Deja Vu_ (available on iTunes).

  
_Heart and Soul_ by everyone who has ever been near a piano

  
_Brothers In Arms_ by Mark Knopfler

 

If you enjoyed 'History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme' I'll enjoy your comments. Editorial criticisms are welcome and will be given due consideration (really!). Complaints about the theme and political direction will be filed under “Rainey don't care”.

**And for Dad's sake, getcher butts to the polls and VOTE!!!**

**Author's Note:**

> Well, dammit! I have never be able to get italics to show up, even when using rich text. Suggestions for solving this problem are most welcome.


End file.
